


For Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves

by marius_pont_de_bercy



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: :)))))))), Canon Era, Multi, Soulmate AU, but the horribly angst kind, everyone dies, i'm not sorry at all, victor hugo would be proud
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9219131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marius_pont_de_bercy/pseuds/marius_pont_de_bercy
Summary: Instead of the first words you hear them say, your soulmate's last words to you are written across your skin, and you do not know who your soulmate is, until they're gone.A series of oneshots focusing on various pairings, inspired bythis tumblr post.





	1. The Center and the Guide

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter focuses on Combeferre and Courfeyrac- the other pairings will have their own chapters later on!
> 
> I've got to thank [Ellen](http://lavosse.tumblr.com) for proofreading and making my story a thousand times better! And Caitlin, Azura, Hayley, and Courtney for encouraging this madness. 
> 
>  
> 
> My apologies in advance. :)

At seventeen, Combeferre’s last words hadn’t appeared yet. He viewed it as a scientific problem at first, something he could solve with meticulous research, and so he pored over heavy, brickish books and romance novels and newspapers and tried to learn, if not how to force the words to appear, how to hasten them along a bit. 

Although he would never admit it to anybody, it frustrated him slightly. 

The situation was made worse by the fact that his best friend, Courfeyrac, already had his soulmate’s last words to him printed across his wrist by the time he turned sixteen, although he only ever let their friend Enjolras see them. 

And Enjolras, too, had them already, although he refused to show anybody at all. He claimed soulmates didn’t matter, that he had more important things to worry about, but Combeferre knew he’d been just as excited when the words appeared on his wrist. 

The words, and their reluctance to show, vexed him the way a mathematical problem would. It was only when he was nineteen that the words finally appeared... 

It had been a quiet day, and he was sitting under a tree with a book— this one not on soulmate marks (which he’d long given up on) but on the human skeleton. 

Courfeyrac flung himself down beside him, jostling his arm and bursting through the quiet as though it was a soap bubble. 

Combeferre tried to shove his spectacles up on his nose with the palm of his hand and wound up half hitting himself in the nose. “Courfeyrac!” 

He’d had rather odd feelings toward the owner of that name for quite some time, especially after Courfeyrac was sent away to study in Switzerland for a year and returned entirely changed. The cheerful, childish smile had become a crooked, somehow rakish grin, and, out of rebellion, he had grown his dark, curly hair out a bit longer. He still shorter than Combeferre, which was a relief. 

Combeferre wasn't quite sure what his feelings meant, and had decided to analyse the problem further. 

”I’m sorry.” Judging by his grin, Courfeyrac was not, in fact, remotely sorry. “You won’t be cross with me now, ‘Ferre?” 

Combeferre couldn't help but smile. “What for?” 

”For interrupting. I'm sure you were entirely absorbed with the—” He squinted at the page. “ _Auditory ossicles._ ” 

Courfeyrac made a face. “Has somebody _made_ you read this?” 

”No.” Combeferre made a face back at him. “I'm reading it because I’m _interested_ in anatomy.” 

Courfeyrac’s grin widened and Combeferre knew something hilarious or entirely dreadful was coming. 

” _I_ could help you study anatomy.” 

He got the reaction that he was looking for. Combeferre made a sound as if somebody was choking him and went bright pink. He made another weak attempt to shove his glasses up, which predictably ended in another weak hit to the nose. 

Courfeyrac laughed. “Be careful, ‘Ferre, you’ll hurt yourself doing that.” 

He leaned in. Combeferre thought he might be going into cardiac arrest. 

Carefully, Courfeyrac pushed his friend's spectacles higher up on his nose for him, and then he got to his feet. 

”I’ll see you later, won’t I?” 

Combeferre had lost the power of speech, but he managed a quick nod, and Courfeyrac grinned. 

It was only as he watched his friend’s receding back that Combeferre regained use of his tongue. “Study anatomy. Ha,” he mumbled, although Courfeyrac was already out of earshot. 

He flipped through the pages of his book, trying to find where he’d left off. Something caught his eye— what looked like the letter ‘I,’ just visible under the edge of his cuff. 

Hardly daring to hope, Combeferre rolled back his sleeve. Sure enough, a sentence stood out against his skin in charcoal black letters, a sentence which read: 

” _I think I love you, you know— and I’m sorry, ‘Ferre, and I love you..._ ” 

Combeferre read it again, a strange sort of sinking feeling in his stomach. _I think I love you—_ would he lose his soulmate just after she confessed her love to him? 

Or maybe not _she._ That funny sort of feeling he had about Courfeyrac, and then the way the words had appeared right after that conversation only supplemented his theory. 

Surely you needn't be near your soulmate for the words to appear— none of the books had mentioned anything like that, and besides, the all the evidence in his books seemed to support that there was no correlation. 

Maybe he was _hoping,_ a little, that Courfeyrac might be his soulmate. 

* * *

Courfeyrac had two older brothers, the older of which studied in England and the younger in Paris, and they had a certain candidness about their own romances that lead Courfeyrac himself, a shameless eavesdropper, to know quite a bit about women and even a little bit about men. 

When he returned from Switzerland to find an older, taller Combeferre, these snippets of information resurfaced rather quickly. Somehow, while he was away, Combeferre had lost the stutter he used to have, although he’d go bright red in the face at Courfeyrac’s remarks and still had a certain tendency to hit himself in the nose trying to fix his glasses when he was flustered. 

Thinking on it, though, he’d loved Combeferre before that. Perhaps it happened while he was in Switzerland, or maybe even earlier— at any rate, he hadn’t quite figured out how happy being near Combeferre made him until he was sent away, and then he only had letters to go off for almost an entire year. 

The writing on his wrist had appeared that January, elegant black script that read: 

” _It’s alright— you’ll be alright— I’m here now, and it doesn’t look so bad— it can’t be so bad_ —” 

The words troubled him. After they appeared, he wrapped bandages around his wrist for a while, stubbornly intent on putting them out of his mind. Perhaps it was wrong, and he’d find his soulmate— Combeferre, with any luck, he mused— and they’d live their lives and grow old together. 

And when he returned to France, thoughts of soulmates and early deaths were eclipsed by everything else in his life. By the time he was nineteen, he had stopped wearing bandages, and had decided that what would happen would happen and that he’d have to live his life to its fullest as best he could before it did. 

* * *

Combeferre almost told Courfeyrac how he felt on the day after Lamarque’s funeral. It was before dawn, and the sky was a deep, velvety blue. Courfeyrac was sitting cross legged on the ground, cleaning a rifle. 

Combeferre sat down beside him and jostled his arm, and Courfeyrac looked up and grinned at him. 

”I’m sorry.” Combeferre managed a tiny smile, and then, as an afterthought, he added, “You won't be cross with me now?” 

Courfeyrac’s grin widened. “As if I could be cross with you.” 

Combeferre hesitated. “I’ve been meaning to— to speak to you. There’s a matter of a— well, of a certain importance that requires…” 

He coughed awkwardly. “That requires immediate address.” 

A moment passed, and Combeferre tried to gather his thoughts and think of something to say. He was all too aware of Courfeyrac’s eyes on him, luminous and amber colored. 

”Is something the matter?” Courfeyrac’s eyebrows lifted slightly. 

Combeferre opened and shut his mouth. _I love you. I’m afraid I’ll lose you before you know how I feel. I’m afraid._ God, it was so much simpler in his head. 

”I…” He looked down at his hands. “No— nothing’s the matter, strictly speaking…” 

”What is it, then?” 

Combeferre tried to shove his spectacles up on his nose and succeeded in hitting himself in the nose, as per the usual. “It— it’s nothing, really, it isn’t…” 

He went bright red. 

Courfeyrac frowned. “You said it was of a certain import.” 

Combeferre took his spectacles off and fumbled to clean them on the front of his shirt. His hands, he realized, were shaking, and Courfeyrac gently took his spectacles from him and cleaned them. 

Combeferre went a darker shade of red as Courfeyrac polished the lenses with his cuff and leaned in to set his spectacles back on his nose. 

Somebody called to him— Enjolras most likely— and then Courfeyrac set his shoulders. His soft little smile was replaced by a serious frown. 

”Can it wait, ‘Ferre? Later…” 

Combeferre nodded hastily. 

Courfeyrac managed a tiny little half smile. He stood, thought better of it, and knelt down beside Combeferre again, and then he leaned in and his lips grazed Combeferre’s forehead. 

Courfeyrac was on his feet again before Combeferre was quite sure of what was happening. 

* * *

As fate would have it, there was no _later._

The National Guard arrived minutes after Courfeyrac left, and all thoughts of soulmates and love scattered like feathers to the wind. They were surrounded, and Combeferre managed to hold his own among the shouting and the bullets and the smoke for a time. 

But a quarter of an hour into the assault, a familiar voice caught his attention— not words but a scream, pain and fear and anguish. 

The gun dropped from Combeferre’s hands. _Courfeyrac._

He had fallen from the barricade, and now he lay on the pavement, his waistcoat soaked with crimson. 

Combeferre let out a cry and half stumbled, half slid down the barricade. He fell to his knees beside Courfeyrac, smoothed a dark curl off his forehead, managed to lift him onto his lap and cling to him as a drowning man would a life preserver. 

”Courfeyrac! _Courfeyrac!_ ” He was pleading, although he knew that begging was useless. 

Courfeyrac’s lips twitched into a smile. There was a drop of red at the corner of his mouth. 

Combeferre’s hands went to the buttons of his vest and he fumbled with the fabric, trying to get a look at the wound. Everything was going slightly blurry— tears welling up in his eyes. “Oh, _God..._ ” 

Courfeyrac wrapped his fingers around Combeferre’s wrist, leaving a streak of blood on his skin. His grip was still surprisingly strong. 

”No— let it be, ‘Ferre,” he murmured. 

Combeferre drew a shuddering breath. “No— Courfeyrac, _no!_ ” 

Courfeyrac hesitated before he spoke again. “I’m afraid,” he whispered. His eyes were wide and his voice earnest. 

”It’s alright— you’ll be alright— I’m here now, and it doesn’t look so bad— it can’t be so bad—” 

Courfeyrac smiled again, and there was resignation in it. 

He clasped Combeferre’s wrist more tightly. 

”Listen— I… I think I love you, you know— and I’m sorry, ‘Ferre, and I love you…” 

Courfeyrac trailed off, the smile still on his face. His grip finally weakened and his hand fell to rest against his chest. 

”No— no, Courfeyrac, _Courfeyrac,_ please, Courf, I love you, I love you too— _Courfeyrac_!” 

It came out as a desperate jumble of words, words that Courfeyrac didn’t hear. 

Combeferre wrapped his arms around him, kissed the top of his head— his familiar, wild curls. 

A hysterical, ragged noise tore itself from his throat, half scream and half sob, as the barricade burned around him and Courfeyrac lay, unmoving, in his arms.


	2. Freckles and Bruises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to [ Ellen](http://lavosse.tumblr.com), a hero among proofreaders! And apologies for the impeding angst.

” _Don’t do anything stupid_.” Those were the words curling around the side of Bahorel’s waist in loopy, dark script. They appeared when he was fifteen, and they amused him to no end, because even at that age, he had a propensity for ill thought-out schemes and winding up in the midst of fights. Still, he believed— and likely rightfully so— that he looked quite dashing with a black eye, and so he made little effort to change his ways. 

And by twenty-one, he had found the Friends of the ABC, and had joined their cause eagerly, and without second thought. It felt right, to his heart and to his soul, and what better to rely on? 

The newest member of the group, on the other hand, was governed almost entirely by reason and careful thought. Feuilly was a working man with auburn hair and freckles like splatters of paint or constellations of stars, and Bahorel took a liking to him immediately— or, as he eventually admitted to himself, something more than a liking. 

Afterwards, he couldn’t quite have said how their friendship came to be, but he could very vividly remember the moment when Feuilly’s feelings toward him became apparent. 

Bahorel had, predictably, wound up in the middle of a bar fight. Some dark-haired stranger had made a remark that had struck him as out of line, and he’d retorted, and before he was quite sure what was going on, the offender’s fist had connected with the side of his head and the situation had escalated from there. 

He’d just ducked a barstool and was launching himself toward the patron who had thrown it when a pair of hands wrapped around his upper arms and he was dragged away from his intended target. Bahorel writhed in his attacker’s grip and tried to kick him in the shins. 

There was a yelp behind him— a familiar voice— and Bahorel stopped struggling. 

”I’m not _attacking_ you, you idiot, that was uncalled for!” 

Bahorel looked over his shoulder and met Feuilly’s eyes, dark brown eyes that sparkled in the lamp light. “Right. Sorry…” 

His voice was, in fact, genuinely apologetic. 

Feuilly gave him a good-natured smile. Across the room, Joly and Combeferre had managed to drag the offending patron away from him and were steering him toward the door. 

Bahorel caught his eye and scowled at him. “He’s lucky you got between us,” he muttered to Feuilly. 

Feuilly sighed. “Or perhaps _you’re_ lucky.” He guided Bahorel to the back room, safely away from the other patrons, and Bahorel’s heart almost skipped a beat as he realized they were alone together. 

He tried to cover it with a show of bravado. ”If you’re trying to say that he could’ve...” 

A laugh in response, and Bahorel turned to face him. Feuilly’s smile became a serious frown when he caught sight of the bruises forming on Bahorel’s cheekbone. 

”Are you alright? You look…” He trailed off. 

Bahorel made a face. “It’s nothing. You should’ve seen _him._ ” 

”I _did._ ” In truth, Bahorel’s opponent had come out of it looking considerably better. 

A thought occurred to him, and he grinned. “Are you _worried_ about me?” 

”’Course I am, you idiot,” Feuilly mumbled. 

Bahorel’s grin widened, and Feuilly hastened to add, “You don’t need to look so _smug_ about it.” 

Bahorel ran a hand through his hair, trying to restore it to some semblance of order. “And what do you intend to do about it?” 

Feuilly looked up at him for a moment, a serious, thoughtful look on his face. 

He was quiet for a moment, and then he stood on tiptoe and his mouth pressed against Bahorel’s for what could’ve been a second or a minute— Bahorel wasn’t sure— and when he drew away, Bahorel let out a sound that could best be described as a squeak. 

Feuilly grinned. “There. You look less smug now.” 

”And what if I start being smug again? I feel incredibly smug at the moment, you know, you should probably do something about it.” Bahorel grinned. 

Feuilly was going slightly red in the face, but he tugged Bahorel closer by the front of his shirt and kissed him again, for longer this time, and Bahorel wrapped his arms around Feuilly’s waist and kissed him back. 

It took him a moment to regain his breath afterwards, and Feuilly was studying his face with wide, earnest eyes. 

”Feuilly,” Bahorel began, and then he stopped abruptly. Feuilly was crimson with embarrassment by now, looking as if he'd rather like the ground to swallow him. 

”Feuilly,” he began again, in a whisper this time. “I think I might be in love with you.” 

Feuilly’s eyes were shining to match the candles on the table, or perhaps brighter. He smiled, and Bahorel’s heart did a funny sort of somersault. 

Bahorel’s arms were still wrapped around his waist, and Feuilly buried his face in Bahorel’s shoulder, trying to hide his blushing. 

His voice came out muffled by the fabric of Bahorel’s shirt: 

”Do you know, Bahorel, I think I love you, too…” 

* * *

“ _Don’t worry, Feuilly, I’ll be careful..._ ” Feuilly had read the words on his forearm a thousand times. It was just like Bahorel to promise to be careful, just like Bahorel to swear he’d come back in one piece and fail to do so. 

And that thought frightened Feuilly like nothing else did, and especially now, with the shouting and the blur of desperate activity and the knowledge that an attack could begin at any minute. 

He set down the plank he'd been carrying to look around him, trying to find his friends. There was Enjolras, at the top of the growing barricade, shouting orders— Courfeyrac, by his side— Joly and Bossuet, dragging a table from the Corinthe— and Bahorel— Bahorel was nowhere to be seen. 

Fear made his chest feel tight. He spun in a circle, heart racing, about to call Bahorel’s name, to cry out, and then somebody wrapped his arms around his waist from behind and he heard a familiar voice in his ear. 

”I’m here, Feuilly, don't worry.” 

Feuilly turned and flung his arms around Bahorel’s neck, a sob rising in his throat. “ _Bahorel..._ ” 

Bahorel managed a tiny smile. “I’m here.” 

”You’ve no idea how— how frightened—” 

”I shan’t let them hurt you.” Bahorel’s tone was belligerent. 

Feuilly shook his head. “Promise me you won't charge them headfirst, Bahorel, I can’t— I can’t lose you, not today. _Promise me._ ” 

”You won’t lose me. I promise.” He sounded calm, and yet his arms tightened protectively around Feuilly. 

Feuilly drew a shaky breath. “You promise.” 

”I do.” 

”I love you so, so much…” Feuilly struggled to fight back tears. 

”I love you, too. I promise, I’ll look out for myself. We’re going to make it.” 

Feuilly nodded and tried for a watery smile. “If you get hurt, I’ll kill you.” 

Bahorel laughed. “Of course.” 

He turned to go and Feuilly caught his hand. 

”Promise me, Bahorel. Don't do anything stupid.” 

Bahorel’s smile faded and he nodded slowly, and then he leaned in to kiss Feuilly. 

”I promise.” He took Feuilly’s hands and clasped them tightly to stop them from shaking. “Don't worry, Feuilly, I’ll be careful…” 

And then someone called his name and he vanished before Feuilly could call after him. 

* * *

It happened in a matter of seconds, but later, it would replay in Feuilly’s mind in slow motion, over and over again. 

Bahorel, charging over the barricade towards their attackers. 

The guardsman who came to meet him. 

And the bayonet that punctured his chest. 

Feuilly felt a hysterical scream tear itself from his throat and his rifle slipped from his hands and clattered against the cobblestones. 

Bahorel swayed, fell, tumbled down the barricade like a broken doll. Feuilly didn't see him land. 

He had fallen on the wrong side of the barricade. 

Feuilly was running before he knew what he meant to do, unarmed, scrambling to reach the crest of the barricade and find Bahorel. Somebody’s arms wrapped around him, dragged him back, and he writhed and lashed out at random. 

”STOP! STOP IT! LET ME GO! I HAVE TO FIND HIM! HE PROMISED ME— HE PROMISED HE’D COME BACK! LET ME _GO_!” 

” _Feuilly!_ Feuilly, _stop!_ ” Bossuet’s voice. Another pair of hands seized his waistcoat, and then Bossuet and Combeferre were dragging him away. 

”BAHOREL! BAHOREL, YOU LIED TO ME! YOU PROMISED! _BAHOREL!_ ” Feuilly’s voice was ragged. He cried out again, out of anger and fear and rage and desperation, and tried to shove his friends away, to no avail. “YOU PROMISED!” 

He took a shaky breath, and then he seemed to collapse in their arms, like a marionette with its strings cut. Had Courfeyrac not been holding him, he would have fallen. 

”Bahorel,” he whispered. His lips were moving, barely any sound coming out. “He promised…” 

”I know. Feuilly, I’m so sorry…” That was Combeferre. His friends set him down, gently, on the cobblestones, and he sat there, dazed, leaning against the wall of the Corinthe. 

His lips moved again, and this time, no sound came out at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update should be up by Tuesday! I'm afraid Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are up next- this might be the chapter I feel guiltiest about.
> 
> And of course, you can always visit me on [tumblr](http://marius-pont-de-bercy.tumblr.com)!


	3. A Lost Scarf and Two Lost Fathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised to post another chapter a while back, I'm sorry! This one's a bit longer, though, so there's that.
> 
>  
> 
> As per the usual, I owe Ellen my thanks for proofreading! ♡

Joly was lost in thought, comparing the writing on his arm to an illustration in a medical textbook. 

According to medical science, at least, it was possible, although rare, to have two soulmate marks. In Joly’s case, “ _I’ll kill you if you don’t come home in one piece,_ ” and “ _Tell ‘Chetta I’m sorry… andㅡ and I love you both._ ” 

The second mark interested him especially. ‘Chettaㅡ he’d known for a while that the ‘Chetta in question must be his mistress, Musichetta, and, logically, she must be one of two soulmates. 

And that _that_ meant he must have a second soulmate. 

The door burst open, startling him out of his reverie, and Musichetta sailed into the flat along with a flurry of snowflakes, accompanied by Joly’s closest friend, Bossuet. She was laughing, the tip of her nose pink from the cold, and she was clutching Bossuet’s arm. 

Joly got to his feet and kissed the top of Musichetta’s head before he turned to his friend. 

”Didn’t you have a scarf when you went out?” There was concern in his tone. 

Bossuet shrugged. “I did, and then it blew into the Seine.” 

”You’ll catch a cold, running about like that.” Joly tried to look stern. 

Bossuet only laughed and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. “I’m alright, Joly, don't be cross.” 

”I’m never _cross_ with either of you,” Joly mumbled. “Haven’t got it in me.” 

”Good.” Musichetta laced her fingers through his. “I doubt Bossuet could bear it if you were.” 

Joly sighed in defeat. 

* * *

In hindsight, Joly realized, he and ‘Chetta had loved Bossuet for a while. 

He’d moved in with Joly and Musichetta half a year ago, and it seemed natural, somehow, that he should sleep in the same bed as they or that Joly should fret over him as much as he did over Musichetta or that ‘Chetta should start to call them ‘her boys.’ 

For Bossuet, the realisation that the couple had become a trio came late at night. 

He and Joly were absorbed in a semi-nonsensical, whispered debate about whether one could sprain his ankle trying to make tea and how such a mishap may come about. ‘Chetta, a victim of circumstance, was lying between them, half asleep. 

The enthusiasm and duration of their debate finally drove her to elbow Joly gently with a dark look on her face. 

”I love you both, but if you don't let me sleep, I shall smother you with a pillow,” she muttered. 

They both fell silent, rather quickly. 

A moment later, Bossuet’s whisper broke the quiet. “You love us both.” 

”Hmm.” A vaguely affirmative groan from Musichetta. “‘Course. Love you. Let me _sleep_.” She dragged the last word out, rather dramatically. 

The silence lasted a little longer this time. 

Bossuet propped himself up on his elbows and cast a glance at Joly. 

”Joly?” His voice came as a whisper. 

”Hmm?” 

”Are you awake?” 

”What d’you _think_?” 

Bossuet looked down at Musichetta, asleep already. Her curls were silvery in the moonlight, and she was smiling serenely. 

”I… You know I’d never intentionally come between you and ‘Chetta,” he whispered. 

Joly let out a quiet snort of laughter. “‘Course not. Why?” 

”I…” Bossuet bit his lip. “I thought, because she said…” 

He could faintly see Joly smile in the darkness. “Both, Joly. She said she loved us both.” 

”And you don’t…” 

Bossuet couldn't be sure, but it looked as if Joly was blushing. 

”Why should I mind? Iㅡ well, _I_ suppose love you _both_.” 

* * *

”I don't see why I shouldn't go with you.” Musichetta frowned grimly, although she sounded half-hearted. “I’d be just as competent as either of you, and besides, I couldn't sit here and _wait_ and not know what’s happening…” 

”’Chetta,” Joly began, looking down at his hands. “You can’t…” 

Bossuet nodded slowly. His usual good-natured grin was replaced with the same solemnity that filled Musichetta’s voice. 

He rested his hand gently on her shoulder. “It’s bad enough as it is, ‘Chetta, and you must _understand_ why we can’t put you at risk…” 

“I do.” Her tone was resigned. Musichetta looked down at her hands. They were trembling in her lap, and Joly’s chest felt tight. 

”Then promise me you’ll stay here, ‘Chetta.” 

”If you promise you’ll both come back in one piece.” 

Bossuet forced a smile. “Don’t worry about us.” 

”You know full well I’ll worry.” Musichetta was trying not to cry. She’d promised herself when she heard about their plans that she wouldn’t, and now tears were coming dangerously close to overwhelming her. 

There was silence, silence that felt heavy and leaden. 

”I love you, ‘Chetta, you’ve got to know that, in case anything happens…” Bossuet couldn’t bring himself to look up at her. 

”You sound as if you’re saying goodbye.” Musichetta’s voice was flat. 

”Noㅡ no, not at all. Not that.” Bossuet laced his fingers through hers, staring down at their hands. 

Joly nodded. “You’ll look after Antoine for us, if we don’tㅡ” 

”Of course.” The corners of her lips twitched into a weak approximation of a smile. “But you’ll come back, won’t you?” 

Bossuet took her hand and clasped it tightly. “We will. We’ll be home by tomorrow evening.” 

Joly leaned in to kiss her on the forehead. “You’ll see, ‘Chetta, we’ll be back before long.” 

He managed a smile, and it felt a little less forced and a little more hopeful. 

”I’ll look after him for you.” 

Musichetta went rigid, her lips parted, wide eyes darting from one to the other. “I can’tㅡ” 

There was a frantic rap on the door, and Bossuet shot to his feet to open it. One of his friends was standing on their doorstep, the one whom Musichetta knew as Courfeyrac. 

”Bossuet! Bossuet, it’s all beginning, we’ve got to go!” He sounded elated and Musichetta hated him for it. 

Courfeyrac caught sight of Joly, behind Bossuet in the doorway by now, and seized his forearm. “Joly!” 

They exchanged a glance, and then Joly nodded resolutely. 

Bossuet turned, and Musichetta had already risen to her feet. 

He wrapped his arms around her, one last time, and then Joly was holding onto them both and Musichetta wished that they could stay like that, together, for a century at least. 

She tried to suppress the sobs rising in her throats and buried her face in Bossuet’s waistcoat. 

_No._ She’d promised herself not to cry, and she couldn’t afford to, couldn’t let herself fall apart. She had Antoine to think about, and what would happen to him with Joly and Bossuet gone and Musichetta mad with grief? 

So she forced herself to draw away, trying to smile, and tucked an errant tendril of hair behind her ear, pulling herself together. 

”No goodbyes. You're coming back.” The words felt hollow, even as she said it. Bossuet opened his mouth, about to say something, and she shook her head. 

”And don’t forget. I’ll kill you if you don't come home in one piece.” 

Bossuet opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, and then he stopped himself, and then Joly seized his hand and the door slammed shut behind them and just like that, Musichetta was on her own. 

She drew a shaky breath and stared down at her sleeve. Without pushing her sleeve up, she could see the words written there, burned into her retinas. 

” _You’ll see, ‘Chetta, we’ll be back before long._ ” 

” _I’ll look after him for you._ ” 

Her hand went to rest against her stomach of its own accord, and she was trembling again. 

”Antoine,” she whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” 

_His fathers gone, his mother mad with grief before he’s even born…_

Musichetta sank into the nearest chair, wrapping her arms around herself, and finally, the tears that had been threatening to fall spilled over and the sobs that had been building within her all afternoon overwhelmed her. 

* * *

Joly had settled into a horrible routine. Alcohol, stitches, bandages, and then on to the next patient, using grain liquor from the cellar and torn up bits of curtains and clothing as they ran out of supplies. 

By now, it was more muscle memory than thought. His hands were steady, his tone gentle, and he whispered reassurances to the patients as he worked. 

He had only just managed to remove a bullet from a young printer’s apprentice’s shoulder when Combeferre and Feuilly set an all too familiar patient on the table. 

Joly felt as though he’d been hit in the chest, as though he’d had the air knocked out of him. _Bossuet…_

Bossuet was wide-eyed, blood soaking his waistcoat and his shirt and his trousers. Blood splattered his face, and he was bleeding from a cut on his forehead. His lips were moving, only the faintest sound coming out. 

Joly was at Bossuet’s side in an instant, searching for the source of the bleeding. His breathing was shaky now, his hands trembling more than he would have liked. 

A bullet had lodged itself in Bossuet’s stomach, and a second above his knee. 

A hand rested on Joly’s shoulderㅡ Combeferre. There was a grave look in his friend’s eyes, and he shook his head slightly. 

Joly was struggling to keep his breathing steady. He reached out to take Bossuet’s hand, and tried to muster a smile. The result was a half-hearted twitch, but Bossuet somehow managed to smile back. 

”Justㅡ hold on, Bossuet, alright? It’s going to be alright…” 

He turned to Combeferre, with a sort of desperate light in his eyes. “Have we got any bandages left? If I can staunch the bleedingㅡ” 

”Joly…” Combeferre was just standing there, his tone flat and resigned. 

Joly shook his head and pushed past Combeferre, searching for bandages, cloth, anything he could use. 

”Joly…” A labored whisper. Bossuet. 

Joly found a bit of torn up tablecloth on the floor and half ran across the room to him. He pressed the fabric to the wound in his stomach, frowning with concentration. 

Bossuet lifted his arm, painfully slowly, and wrapped his fingers around Joly’s wrist. “It’s alright, Joly…” 

Joly’s vision blurred, and something warm coursed down his cheek. He blinked away tears, trying to focus on the ragged hole in Bossuet’s stomach. 

”Hold on, Bossuet, just hold on— it’s alright, I promise, you’ll be alright…” 

Bossuet had lost so much blood already, far too much blood. The bit of cloth was soaked with scarlet already, and Joly’s hands were shaking worse. 

Bossuet coughed, and there was a thin trickle of red at the corner of his mouth. 

”It’s useless. You know that, Joly…” His voice was painfully weak, but his grip on Joly’s wrist tightened for a moment. 

” _Bossuet_ , you can’t say that— Bossuet, _please_...” 

Bossuet drew a ragged, labored breath, and then his hand drifted up to rest on Joly’s chest. There was urgency in his eyes now, and resolution in his tone. 

”Tell ‘Chetta I’m sorry...” 

” _No—_ ” Joly abandoned the bloody rag to rest his hand gently on the side of Bossuet’s face. 

”And…” 

” _Bossuet_!” 

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Bossuet’s mouth. “And I love you both…” 

” _Please!_ ” 

Bossuet was still smiling when the light faded from his eyes. 

Joly was silent for a moment, staring down at Bossuet. He was still, although it felt as if the room was spinning around him, and everything seemed suddenly, strangely surreal. His mouth opened, closed, and no sound came out; his gaze was fixed on Bossuet. 

Bossuet, with his charming, friendly smile and his endless jokes and his good-natured laughter and his shining eyes and his warmth and his light and his cheer. 

Bossuet, lying on the table before him, soaked in crimson, his eyes, unseeing, shining no longer, fixed on the ceiling, and the ghost of a smile on his face. 

Joly said nothing, only leaned down to kiss his forehead. 

Something caught his eye, the curling black letters below Bossuet’s collarbone. 

” _I’ll kill you if you don’t come in one piece._ ” 

And just below it: 

” _No— Bossuet—_ please _!_ ” 

Joly touched the words with the tip of his finger, tears making the letters swim. Seeing Bossuet that way, without the light that seemed to fill him and to overflow from him, was worse that a bayonet through his chest. 

Wordlessly, he turned and pushed past Combeferre and picked up a musket left leaning against a chair. 

Somebody called after him— Feuilly, perhaps. The door of the café slammed shut behind Joly, and he was in the street, among the fire and the shouting and the smoke. 

He thought of Musichetta, alone, waiting for them, although she knew all too well that they might never come home, and of Antoine. _Antoine_... his fathers would be dead before he was born, and his mother— Joly could only hope that Musichetta would manage. It was too late to leave the barricades now, too late to go home and put the pain and the blood behind him. 

And so, as Bossuet lay in the Corinthe, unmoving and silent, Joly brushed away his tears and went to take his place on the barricade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up by Thursday at the lastest! This time, it's Cosette/Marius/Éponine. 
> 
>  
> 
> And don't hesitate to visit me on [Tumblr](Http://marius-pont-de-bercy.tumblr.com) in the meantime!


	4. The Lark and the Wolf's Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marius/Éponine/Cosette angst as promised, and actually ahead of schedule for once!
> 
> Eternal thanks go to Ellen, as always! :)

Éponine was cold. 

She had only a thin cotton dress and a ragged, pathetic facsimile of a shawl, more holes than fabric, and the snow stung her bare feet. 

Faint whispers drifted over the garden wall, and Éponine’s chest hurt, not from the cold but from something else. Jealousy, perhaps, or loneliness… 

She could imagine what was happening on the other side of the wall. Cosette, with her flowing silk dressing gown and her lovely, innocent face, her eyes shining to match the street lamp, or brighter, perhaps, and Marius, with wonder in his eyes and that dazed, lovestruck little smile of his. They’d be beautiful, full of love and light and warmth, radiant, glowing too brightly to look at. 

Éponine gazed down at her forearm, at the words written there. They seemed to mock her– two sets of letters, two phrases, and here she was, out in the cold, by herself. Éponine doubted she could get _one_ person to love her, much less _two_. 

” _Promise me you’ll take it to him, ‘Ponine, and promise you’ll be careful!_ ” She couldn't imagine those words spoken out loud, couldn't imagine such concern for her. _Be careful..._

And below them: “ _I’m here now, ‘Ponine, I shan’t let anyone hurt you!_ ” 

She traced the words slowly. _I shan’t let anyone hurt you._ The words used to make her smile, imagining some handsome prince there to sweep her off her feet, to save her from her drab, cold life. 

Reading them now, they made her chest hurt. 

She let her arms fall to her sides again, leaning against the cold stone of the wall, and stared up at the darkened sky above as the sound of joyful, angelic laughter drifted from the garden. 

* * *

Cosette did not feel the cold, although she was in her nightdress and dressing-gown, and the snow settled gently in her chestnut-colored hair like little stars. 

If one had asked her, she would have been surprised to know it was not spring, for in the moment, everything around her seemed nothing but warmth and light. 

Marius held both her hands in his, He, too, was untouched by the cold, alright his coat was dreadfully threadbare and his shoes full of holes. His eyes were wide, as though she was some beautiful spectre that might vanish if he looked away. 

”Do you mean it, Marius?” Cosette’s voice was a whisper, breathless and earnest. 

”I do, Cosette, I love you…” His eyes shone, and Cosette fancied she could see every star in the heavens reflected in them, and then some. 

”Oh! I _adore_ you.” 

* * *

In truth, Cosette knew little of love, save from the cheap romance novels that had been passed between the girls at the convent where she used to live. Of course she’d known what the words on her arm meant– they had appeared when she was not more than ten, two phrases, one above the other, and an older girl had very smugly informed her that that meant Cosette was a ‘harlot.’ At the time, Cosette didn't know what the word meant, but she had a feeling it was bad. 

Nonetheless, the other girls in the convent had clustered eagerly around her to read the words. Ordinarily, only the older girls had their soulmate marks, and they all wore bandages over them. 

Later on, Cosette began to hide them with bandages as well, but she knew the words by heart. 

” _Oh! Have I got you worried? You needn't be, you know. I can look after myself._ ” 

” _Only if you promise to rest now, Cosette._ ” 

* * *

Éponine decided to let them have their happily ever after. 

After all, Cosette loved him, and he loved her, and who was Éponine to come between them? That pain in her chest, the jealousy and the hurt that stung worse than the wind and the snow– it would go away with time, she promised herself. It _had_ to. 

And so she cast one last longing look at the wall that separated them, and Éponine vanished into the shadows. 

The street was silent, still, snow filling in the footsteps she'd left, and in a matter of minutes, it was as if she'd never been there at all. The snow still fell as heavily as before and the wind still tore at the branches above them, and in the garden on the Rue Plumet, there was no such thing as winter. 

* * *

A month passed, and then another. Éponine did not return to the Rue Plumet, and she strove to avoid Marius as well. For a time, she almost managed to put that jealous, dull ache out of her mind, and by the time June arrived, she had assured herself that she had put it all behind her. 

June, when the barricades were rising and the streets filling with rioters, with shouting, with chaos. June– that was when Éponine broke her promise, and returned to the garden, only to find the house on the Rue Plumet silent and empty. 

Cosette was sitting on the garden bench, staring down at her hands. The garden around her was unfamiliar, and there was something menacing about the carefully tended flower beds and shrubbery, so different from the overgrown, enchanted Rue Plumet. She was alone, tears streaking her face, hoping against hope that Marius would find her again. 

She had been in the garden since six in the evening, and now, an hour and a quarter later, her prayers still went unanswered. 

A minute later, she heard a voice call her name. 

”Cosette!” 

The voice was no more than a whisper, coming from the direction of the gate. 

Slowly, Cosette rose to her feet and tugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. 

”Marius?” Her voice was soft, cautious. 

There was a boy on the other side of the gate, a boy in a ragged, worn out waistcoat, without a coat or shoes. Dirt smudged his face, and his hair was tucked up beneath a cap. 

Cosette’s heart sank. Not Marius. 

”Cosette,” the boy whispered again, and she went to the gate. 

He took off his cap, and Cosette finally recognized the face: not a boy at all, but a slender girl with wide, dark brown eyes. 

”Éponine!” Cosette gripped the bars. “Éponine, what are you doing here? Have you seen Marius?” 

Éponine hesitated for a moment before she answered. 

“He’s gone to the barricades,” she said slowly. “I mean to join him there.” 

”To the barricades! Doesn't he know how dangerous– how foolish–” Cosette gripped the bars so tightly her knuckles were white. “Oh, he _can’t!_ ” 

”You’re leaving, aren't you?” Éponine looked grave. “For England.” 

Cosette nodded slowly. 

”’Ponine, will you help me? Will you do something for me?” 

”Of course, Cosette, anything.” 

”Will you take Marius a letter from me?” 

Éponine nodded slowly. “I will.” 

Cosette’s expression brightened, and that horrible, jealous pain in Éponine’s chest returned in full force. 

“I’ll only be a moment,” Cosette cried, and then she turned and ran into the house. 

Again, Éponine was alone in the street, on the other side of the garden wall. She was reminded of the night Cosette and Marius had met, and the thought brought a bitter little smile to her face. 

True to her word, Cosette was back in the garden in a matter of minutes, a carefully folded piece of paper clasped in her hands. 

”Éponine, you’re a saint!” She held out the letter, her eyes shining with hope. “Take it to him, and make him come home, ‘Ponine, don't let him get hurt.” 

Éponine stared at the letter for a moment before she accepted it, a heavy, sinking feeling inside her. 

”He’ll have the letter, Cosette, and I'll bring him home to you.” 

”Promise me!” 

”I promise.” Éponine managed a sad little half-smile. 

”Promise me you’ll take it to him, ‘Ponine, and promise you’ll be careful!” 

The words felt like a knife through Éponine’s stomach. 

She managed to force a laugh. “Oh! Have I got you worried?” 

Éponine reached out to take Cosette’s hand through the bars with a tiny half smile. You needn't be, you know. I can look after myself.” 

On a last whim, she lifted Cosette’s hand and kissed the back of it, gently, almost cautiously, and then, before Cosette could say anything, she let go, and before Cosette could call out for her to stop, to come back, Éponine was gone. 

Éponine’s words seemed to echo around her: _Have I got you worried?_

Familiar words, words she’d seen a thousand times… 

” _You needn’t be, you know…_ ” 

The words that curled around Cosette’s wrist… 

” _I can look after myself…_ ” 

The last words that her soulmate would ever say to her– the last words that _Éponine_ would ever say to her… 

She had unlatched the gate before she knew what she was doing, and she ran out into the street, desperate to find Éponine, to stop her from going to the barricades, to find her again. 

“‘Ponine, where are you?” The words came out as a desperate cry, tearing themselves from her throat. ”’PONINE! 

She spun in a circle, and around her, the street was still and silent. 

Cosette could see one of the neighbors watching her disapprovingly from a window, and a cab passed slowly by, and apart from that, the Rue de l’Homme Armée was deserted. 

”’Ponine!” She called again, and now it was more of a sob than a cry. “ _’Ponine..._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update should be up by the end of today- Marius/Cosette/Éponine, continued! 
> 
> In the meantime, as always, feel free to visit me on [tumblr](http://marius-pont-de-bercy.tumblr.com). :)


	5. Éponine at the Barricade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the Marius/Éponine/Cosette angst- can you believe I made it through a chapter without killing anyone off?
> 
> And of course, Ellen deserves all the thanks (and heart emojis) in the world.

Marius Pontmercy was afraid. 

It had been easier while the barricade was under attack, when he was surrounded by fighting and smoke and battle, when he could let the adrenaline and the rush take over. 

But now that the National Guard had been driven away, Marius was alone with his thoughts again. 

_Cosette._

She occupied his thoughts first and foremost. He could remember the way she looked when he’d seen her last, with tear tracks glistening on her cheeks and desperation in her voice. 

_Can’t you come with us? Or you could marry me, or– there must be some way for us to stay together, Marius, there _must_ be… _

His hand went to his upper arm, to the words hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt. 

” _Will you leave the curtains open, Marius? It’s such a lovely day out..._ ” 

” _It doesn't hurt at all, not now that you’re here..._ ” 

He took a shaky breath, trying to reassure himself. Cosette’s last words to him had been ‘I love you,’ after all, and she had to be his soulmate. He would see her again, he _had_ to. 

Marius sat down on the steps of the Corinthe. His hands had slowly stopped trembling. 

He would see Cosette again, he reassured himself. He would find her and he would marry her, if she’d have him, no matter what his grandfather had to say about it. 

His breathing had only just slowed to its normal pace when a gunshot shattered the uneasy peace. 

”THERE’S A BOY CLIMBING THE BARRICADE!” 

Marius looked up. Sure enough, he could see the boy, supported by Combeferre and Prouvaire, a scarlet stain spreading across his waistcoat. There was an urgent expression on his face, and he said something that Marius couldn't quite catch to Combeferre. 

”Marius! He wants to speak to you.” 

Prouvaire’s normally serene expression was unusually grave. 

Marius was on his feet, at the boy's side in moments. The boy reached out to him, and his knees buckled, and Marius took his weight, sinking to the ground with the boy in his arms. 

Combeferre rested his hand on Marius’s shoulder for a split second, and then he and Prouvaire were gone. 

”Monsieur Pontmercy…” The boy’s voice sounded horribly weak. 

Marius suddenly recognized the face looking up at him. 

”Éponine?” 

A little smile. “Who else would've been so stupid?” 

She laughed, her eyes suddenly bright, although her laughter turned to a fit of coughing. 

There was blood at the corner of her mouth. 

” _Stupid?_ ‘Ponine, what are you talking about?” 

”Stupid… to come here.” She smiled. “Stupid to fall in love with you, and with Cosette…” 

”’Ponine!” There was desperation in his voice now. “It's alright, ‘Ponine, I'm here now, I'll bring you into the café and Combeferre shall patch you up!” 

He tried to lift her and Éponine let out a cry of pain. Marius stopped, his hands shaking again. 

”Éponine...” 

”Leave it,” she murmured. “It’s alright, Monsieur Marius…” 

”’Ponine, it's not too late– stay awake, ‘Ponine, just stay awake…” 

”Listen, Marius…” There was a new urgency in her voice. “I've got a letter for you, from Cosette…” 

Her hand was shaking as badly as Marius’s as she drew the letter from her waistcoat. He took it and slipped it into his pocket, tears blurring his vision. 

”’Ponine…” 

She smiled. “Monsieur Marius, will you promise me something?” 

”Anything.” 

”Once I’m…” Éponine faltered. “Once I’m asleep, will you leave here and find Cosette again? She made me promise to bring you home…” 

”I promise.” Marius hoped his voice sounded stronger than he felt. 

”Good.” She smiled again, her eyes shining despite the pain. ”And when– when I’m asleep, will you kiss me? Only on the forehead, but please, Marius, will you promise me? 

In answer, Marius bent over her, and he kissed her on the forehead, gently, cautiously. 

Éponine’s smile was so radiant that Marius thought anybody who looked at her was sure to go blind. 

”I’m here now....” 

She reached up to touch the side of his face, her eyes filled with wonder, as if she was seeing him for the first time. “That’s all I need to know…” 

”I’m here now, ‘Ponine, I shan’t let anyone hurt you…” 

She nodded slowly, the smile still on her lips. 

”It doesn’t hurt at all now…” 

A fit of coughing interrupted her, and Marius held her more tightly, trying to protect her, although he knew it would do little. She was close to him, their foreheads inches away, and that sad little smile was, to Marius, so bright it dazzled him. 

And then her hand fell to her side, and the light faded from her eyes, and she was still. 

* * *

Marius regained consciousness in his own room, three days later. Fragments of memory were tugging at him– the fighting, and Éponine, and being shot soon afterward, and seeing his friends fall, fragments that hurt so much that he longed to lose consciousness for a little while longer. 

At least Cosette was by his side, with her gentle touch and her soft voice, and when he saw her again for the first time, he smiled for the first time in days. She stayed by him, looked after him,under her care, Marius began to regain his health. 

The first time he woke, she wasn’t there, but the second time, Cosette was by him. Only a little later did she ask him, in a soft, serious voice, if he had seen Éponine, and if he knew what had happened to her. 

At the time, he could only manage to shake his head, and she had understood, but months later, when he could finally walk again with the help of a crutch, the matter was revisited. 

They were in the garden on the Rue Plumet, and Cosette had fallen silent, staring down at her hands. 

”Marius?” 

The sadness in her tone brought a frown to Marius’s face. 

”What’s the matter, Cosette?” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. 

She was silent for a moment before she answered. 

”What happened to her? To ‘Ponine?” 

Marius looked away. “She was shot,” he said, his tone slow and measured. “She climbed the barricade, and then…” 

He stopped. There were no words for the red that soaked her shirt, for the way she’d collapsed, for the way she’d smiled at him just before she’d gone still. 

”I was with her,” he whispered. “I was there when she…” 

Cosette shook her head slowly. “It was my fault.” 

Marius looked up at her. “Cosette– how could it be–” 

”I sent her to you. I sent her to the barricades, and then she– and I’ve killed her, Marius, it's my fault!” 

”You're not the one who shot her.” His tone was unreadable. 

”But she was shot because of me.” 

”Cosette…” 

There were tears shining on her cheeks again, and she hid her face against Marius’s shoulder. 

There was silence in the garden, a heavy, leaden silence that seemed to last a decade. 

Finally, Cosette broke it, her voice slightly muffled by the fabric of Marius’s shirt. “She was one of my soulmates, Marius, and I never… Why didn’t I ever realize?” 

Marius gave up on finding the right words, and he wrapped his arms around her and drew her closer. 

And they stood there, in the garden on the Rue Plumet, in the garden where they had first met, two instead of three, as Cosette clung to him and as the tears Marius had been trying to hold back spilled over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going up on Tuesday! I'm afraid Montparnasse and Prouvaire will be the next to suffer. :)
> 
> Until then, you can always find me on [tumblr](http://marius-pont-de-bercy.tumblr.com).


	6. The Cemetery and the Blind Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaaaaaaaack from the dead. Or from hiatus. Whichever it was.
> 
> *sigh*
> 
>  
> 
> My apologies for the delay.

It was a quiet night, which Montparnasse supposed he should be thankful for. Still, he felt more bored than anything. 

The cemetery was dark and silent as he sat, leaning against a tombstone, smoking a cigarette with an air of ennui. _Damn_ Claquesous for making him wait, on his own, for a quarter of an hour, when there were better things– more _interesting_ things– he could be doing. 

He sighed, watching whorls of smoke curling up from his cigarette with disinterest. 

There was a sound behind him, perhaps six feet away, and Montparnasse looked up. 

_Finally._

He rose, slowly, to his feet, put the cigarette out, ground it into the earth with his heel. 

There was a figure standing in the graveyard, a boy, with red hair that was a little too long to fit the current fashion and an ill-fitting, worn out old coat. 

Not Claquesous, then. 

Montparnasse knew, logically, that he could let him go, crouch down behind the tombstone again and go back to waiting, keep from making a fuss. Still, he was _bored_ , thoroughly and dreadfully, and the boy's appearance was the first mildly interesting thing that had happened all night. 

The boy had not yet taken notice of Montparnasse, and before he could turn around and see him, Montparnasse had closed the distance between them and held a knife to the boy's throat. 

The boy flinched, although he didn't cry out. 

"Paris has her dangers at night, you know," Montparnasse murmured. 

The boy was quiet for a moment before he answered, and his voice was soft, although it was calm and fearless. 

"Am I to count you among them?" 

"Perhaps. I haven't quite made up my mind yet..." Montparnasse smiled crookedly. 

"I haven't got any money, if you mean to rob me," he said. "And if you mean to kill me, you ought to know that I'm nobody important." 

Montparnasse arched an eyebrow. "You've no fear, have you?" 

The boy tilted his head slightly. "I've been in worse scrapes." 

Montparnasse lowered the knife. "You've no sense of self preservation." 

The boy turned to face him, and he was grinning. "I know that far too well." 

Now that he was closer, Montparnasse could make out his facial features properly. The boy had luminous amber eyes and freckles that formed a little constellation across his face. Despite his clothes, Montparnasse admitted to himself, he was rather beautiful. 

"I've seen you before, haven't I?" Montparnasse tried to sound disinterested. "One of 'Ponine's schoolboys." 

The boy nodded, a tiny smile on his face. "A Friend of the ABC, yes." 

"That's a dreadful pun, you know." 

"My name is Jean, Jean Prouvaire– my friends call me Jehan. I suppose it might be a little fanciful..." 

"Jehan Prouvaire." Montparnasse realized he was smiling in spite of himself. "I'm called Montparnasse, if it matters at all." 

"It does." 

Although it was dark, Montparnasse could have sworn that Jehan was blushing. 

There was a moment of quiet, broken by the sound of footsteps, and Montparnasse sighed. 

”You ought to go, Jehan Prouvaire. I'm here to meet somebody.” 

”Somebody dangerous.” Jehan’s eyes shone with curiosity. 

”Very.” Montparnasse couldn't help but smile. 

Jehan hesitated. “Will you try to find me again?” 

”What, a man threatens to kill you and you ask him when you shall see him again?” 

”Yes.” Jehan grinned. “Will you find me, ‘Parnasse?” 

Montparnasse smirked. “Perhaps.” 

* * *

Jehan kept his gaze fixed on the surface of the table, trying not to stare at the dark haired young man across the room from him, horribly aware that he was going bright red in the face. He couldn’t help but wonder whether Montparnasse had _meant_ to find him again. 

Montparnasse had come to the meeting with Éponine, and spent the greater part of it sitting at the back of the room, looking thoroughly languid and disinterested. Once or twice throughout, Jehan had looked up to see the dandy’s steel grey eyes fixed on him, and a funny little smile playing across his lips. 

Jehan couldn't help but think of the word across his ribcage– “ _Jehan!_ ” It had always struck him as a little disappointing– nothing terribly tragic or romantic or even _specific_ – and also as a little frightening, because every time somebody called out his name, he might lose his soulmate. 

Lost in his own thoughts, Jehan hardly noticed as the meeting drew to a close. 

He was startled out of his reverie when a hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up to meet a familiar steely grey gaze. 

_Montparnasse._

”You came looking for me.” Jehan couldn't help but smile. 

Montparnasse arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps.” 

”Shall I take that as a yes?” 

Montparnasse ignored the question. “I believe we may’ve gotten off on the wrong foot last time.” 

He was trying his hardest to look put together and cavalier, although there was a shyness creeping into his voice. 

”You wouldn't have killed me.” Jehan grinned. 

”No?” 

”I think not.” 

”Perhaps you were right.” 

”Will you walk with me, Monsieur Montparnasse?” 

”Walk with you?” 

”Somebody quite recently told me that Paris has her dangers at night.” 

Montparnasse laughed. The affected air of ennui was gone from his tone, now, and his eyes seemed to shine in the candlelight. “You mean for me to escort you?” 

”You seem to be a respectable young man, Monsieur.” Jehan grinned up at him. 

”Very well.” Montparnasse offered Jehan his elbow with a gentlemanly flourish, and Jehan took it with all the grace he could muster. 

”Shall we, then, Monsieur Prouvaire?” 

* * *

It was dark by the time they had reached Jehan’s doorstep, and Jehan stopped to look up at Montparnasse, studying his features by the lamplight. 

”I… well, I believe I ought to thank you for escorting me. You really are quite the gentleman, you know.” 

”Oh, I'm ever the gentleman.” Montparnasse grinned crookedly at him. “Only seldom _respectable._ ” 

Jehan laughed. “You aren't half as frightening as you seem at first.” 

”No? I should think you quite fearless.” 

”Hardly.” Jehan shrugged. 

Montparnasse’s eyes were shining again, and Jehan tilted his head. “I suppose _you_ are quite fearless.” 

”Few things truly frighten me.” Montparnasse smirked. “Clashing fabrics, I suppose, and badly tailored coats.” 

”I must frighten you terribly.” Jehan grinned at him, incredibly cheerfully. 

”Oh– Jehan Prouvaire, you put the fear of _God_ into me.” He laughed. “Will you let me put your cravat to rights, at least?” 

Jehan nodded, and Montparnasse leaned in to straighten his collar. He was so close that his forehead nearly touched Jehan’s, and his fingertips grazed the back of the poet’s neck. 

Jehan thought, perhaps, that Montparnasse could hear his heart beating. 

It took him a moment, and then Montparnasse leaned back to survey his work with a smug little smile. 

”A little better.” 

He was still close enough to kiss Jehan, and he couldn't help but notice. 

Jehan, it seemed, had noticed the very same thing. 

Before he could quite think it through, he was on his tiptoes, and he was kissing Montparnasse, and Montparnasse steadied himself with a hand against the doorframe, wrapping his other arm around Jehan’s waist, as a peculiar new thought darted through his head. 

_Perhaps I’m a little in love._

* * *

As far as he could remember, Montparnasse had been afraid of falling in love, and beneath that, afraid of being abandoned. The words on his arm hardly helped: “ _I’m coming back, ‘Parnasse, I promise._ ” 

It seemed simple. Of course his soulmate would leave him, he thought, of course they’d promise to return and vanish instead. Wasn’t that just his luck? 

But waking up on the morning of the fifth of June, 1832, the reality of it seemed, suddenly, a thousand times worse. 

Jehan was awake already, in shirtsleeves, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed, lacing his shoes. 

”Jehan,” Montparnasse murmured, shoving the blankets aside. “Jehan, where are you going?” 

Jehan paused and looked up at him. “You know quite well,” he said, and his voice sounded so horribly small that Montparnasse’s chest felt tight. 

” _Jehan…_ ” 

”I’m sorry, I really am…” 

”I can’t let you…” Montparnasse’s voice was shaking. 

”I’ve got to.” Jehan sounded resolute, even though there were tears glittering in his eyes. 

Montparnasse moved over to him and wrapped his arms around his waist, wishing that he could keep Jehan there, wishing that he could protect him. 

”I suppose you’ll never forgive me if I keep you from going…” 

”I’ll be home before long, ‘Parnasse, I’ll be careful…” 

It made things worse, somehow, that he sounded so earnest. Montparnasse could almost believe him, almost believe that he’d be home, safe, unhurt, by evening. 

”I love you, Jehan,” he whispered. “And I’m a better man for loving you. You ought to know that...” 

”You’ve always been a good man, ‘Parnasse, even if you won’t admit it.” Jehan was blinking away tears. 

Montparnasse felt like he was shattering into pieces, like his chest was caving in, like the weight of losing Jehan was crushing him, like the walls were closing in. 

He reached out to brush away the tears from Jehan’s cheek. 

”Hey– it’s going to be alright, Jehan, I promise.” 

Jehan nodded, and then he wrapped his arms around Montparnasse, holding on to him as tightly as he could, his forehead resting at the base of Montparnasse’s neck. 

”I love you, ‘Parnasse. I want you to know that…” 

”Don’t make it sound like you’re saying goodbye, Jehan,” he whispered. “ _Please._ ” 

”You’re right.” Jehan managed a weak little smile. He kissed Montparnasse, one last time, and then he was on his feet, reaching for his coat. “It’s not goodbye.” 

At the door, he paused to glance back at Montparnasse. 

“I’m coming back, ‘Parnasse, I promise,” he said. 

And then, just like that, he was gone. 

Montparnasse shot to his feet, his expression going ashen. 

_Not those words– anything but those words._

”Jehan! Jehan, wait– Jehan! Jehan, _please!_ ” He half-flung himself out into the hall, his heart racing madly, down the corridor, out into the crowded street. 

”No! No, Jehan– come back, Jehan, you’ve got to come back!” 

One or two people were staring at him, maybe confused or maybe sympathetic. He paid them no mind. 

Because Jehan was gone, vanished, swallowed by the crowd, and now he was alone, leaning against a lamp post because he wasn’t sure he could stand on his own. 

And Jehan– _Jehan–_ was gone. 

* * *

Everything was dark. Perhaps that was the worst part– never seeing the sky again, never seeing the stars again, never seeing _Montparnasse_ again. 

But he _had_ to. 

”Don’t make it sound like you’re saying goodbye, Jehan. _Please._ ” The words were echoing through Jehan’s head. 

They didn't match the word on his wrist. 

And so that had to mean that he'd see Montparnasse again. He _couldn't_ die, not here, not now. 

He _couldn't._

Unless Montparnasse– Montparnasse _had_ to be his soulmate. Jehan was sure of that, more sure of it than of anything else, and if Montparnasse wasn't his soulmate, then Jehan didn't want a soulmate at all. 

He could almost see Montparnasse, with his grey eyes and his crooked smile and his dark hair, and so he squared his shoulders and kept his chin up. 

Jehan couldn't see what was going on, but he could imagine it, the guardsmen taking aim, the rifles raised. Somehow, strangely, he wasn’t afraid. 

The words tore themselves from his throats before he planned them, and they felt _right–_

”VIVE LA FRANCE! VIVE LA REPUBLIC!” 

And then he heard a familiar voice, and it felt as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him. 

”Jehan! _Jehan!_ ” 

He turned his head, searching blindly for the source of the noise, and he could make out the sound of a struggle on the other side of the square, and Montparnasse’s voice– _Montparnasse..._

And then Jehan was struck by some some invisible force and he stumbled back and hit the wall and slid to the ground and there was a sound so loud and so terrible that he thought the entire world must be shattering and there was a horrible pain in his chest and he could hear Montparnasse crying out. 

And then someone barked an order than Jehan couldn't quite make out and he could hear the guardsmen walking away and Montparnasse falling to his knees beside him and the blindfold was tugged away by someone whose hands were shaking and he could see again– the sky and the stars and _Montparnasse._

” _Jehan..._ ” Montparnasse let out a ragged sob, and Jehan tried to speak. No sound came out. 

”Jehan, I love you– Jehan, _please…_ ” Montparnasse’s cheeks were streaked with tears, and somehow the pain in his voice was worse than the hole in Jehan’s chest. 

Jehan tried to speak again, and only a horrible, rattling cough came out. 

”Oh, God, _Jehan..._ ” 

_I love you._ Jehan couldn't get the words out, but that was what he meant to say. _I’m sorry, ‘Parnasse. I love you._

”Jehan– _Jehan!_ ” Montparnasse sounded as if he was far away now, underwater, and the sky was blurry and his features were swimming and Jehan felt like his head was filled with cotton. 

And now Montparnasse’s lips were moving, and Jehan couldn't hear him, and then, finally, the sky went dark and the stars flickered out and Jehan Prouvaire was still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up by next Saturday, at lastest. Although I'm not quite reliable with schedules, so take that with a pinch of salt, perhaps.
> 
> Next up is Claquesous and Gueulemer! The only rarepair in the fic and also one of my favorites.

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter should be posted by Sunday, if I can stick to my own deadline! Bahorel and Feuilly are up next.
> 
>  
> 
> Until then, you can always find me on [tumblr](http://marius-pont-de-bercy.tumblr.com) and shout at me for killing off your favourite characters!


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